


just another disc in the jukebox

by noahloveszombies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Domestic Fluff, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, THIS IS LIES NOW the second chapter was beta'd by my rat on my shoulder, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, and pretty much everybody is in his class, everyone is his kid now. no exceptions, no beta we die like quackity to technoblade, ph1lza is a teacher, phil is a good dad, shoutout to wilby the rat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahloveszombies/pseuds/noahloveszombies
Summary: Phil signed up as a teacher to... well, teach. He'd always wanted to go into teaching- that, and he wants to provide money for the three sons he already has- but at this point, he may as well be collecting tired students having bad nights like vinyl discs for his jukebox, unable to refuse them at his doorstep.or; dadza minecraft big pog
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 11
Kudos: 273





	1. dream

**Author's Note:**

> ummm dadza big pog :)

Phil had gone into teaching because it was something he'd always wanted to do. Simple as. He graded fairly, he taught fairly, and he kept an eye on some of the hellions that walked through his doors, because he'd always had a soft spot for kids, whether they were still just learning to walk, or tired college students who had somehow taken to accidentally calling him 'Dad' through yawns as they passed by him.  At first, it had felt strange for kids he barely spoke to to call him by such a moniker, but after a while he'd somehow gotten used to it. Another part of his day. Walk into work, get called 'Dad' at least twice, teach, come home and get called 'Dad' some more in between his sons' playful arguments and general loud tomfoolery.

What had really caught him off guard was just how easily seemingly all four of them got sucked into late night drama, one way or another. Friends who'd suddenly ghosted all their 'group chats', disagreements turned tumultuous arguments, kids who needed a break from their bad parents... somehow, the family, though mostly Phil himself, had become some kind of bright beacon for struggling kids. Whether it was for advice over the phone, or a couch to sleep on for the night when things got rough, he was oddly their first option. Not that he was complaining- far from it, really. He'd much rather they came to his doorstep, where he could ensure their safety and warmth indoors, than spend the night by themselves, or get into trouble.

Besides, the sound of ruckus at 3AM didn't tend to bother Phil much anymore. He'd had his fair share of late nights with the boys, and at this point, sleeping a full eight hours was an achievement Phil rarely accomplished. Something was  _ always _ going on that required at least one of his sons to crank the volume up to eleven at ungodly hours of the night, and somewhere along the way, Phil had learned to accept that rather than lose his shit over it. Anywhere between four to six hours was better than somewhere underneath that, and a little extra rest wasn't worth an argument.

The position Phil finds himself in tonight is no different, he supposes, from most others, nowadays.  Knuckles on wood was apparently the magical sound that had all three of his boys trying to get a good look at the door from the top of the stairs, and Phil chuckled fondly to himself at the sight as he wandered toward it, cup of tea in his secondary hand, and the handle soon to be in his dominant one.

On his porch, at eleven o'clock at night, stands no other than Dream, a boy Phil had initially met through Techno's frustrated rants and gotten to know better thanks to the classes Phil taught. Dream shuffles his feet, and for a second, looks like he might just walk away, before he says, "Hey, Mr. Watson."

Phil tuts, and opens the door wider, stepping aside to allow the boy some space to cross the threshold. "Thought I told you before, Phil's fine." Dream gives a muted nod as he ambles into the house, glancing around briefly, before his eyes meet Techno's. Somewhere along the way, their heated rivalry had apparently turned into close friendship.

"Uh," Techno begins rather verbosely, already starting to descend the stairs. "I said Dream could stay the night, if that's okay. Family stuff." Behind his usual, calm expression lies a  _ world _ of panic, and the most reassuring thing Phil thinks to do in the moment is reach forward and ruffle the pink hair atop his head. "'Course it's okay, Tech. You're welcome here any time you want, alright, Dream? Any time at all."  The extent of Dream's emotions is mostly hidden by the paper plate mask he took to wearing long before any member of the family had met him, covering a good portion of his face, but the sound of his voice tips Phil off to the vision in his head of a teary smile. "Thanks, Phil."

Shortly after, Techno takes Dream upstairs, muttering to him along the way, and Phil shuffles back to the living room in his slippers and dressing gown, warm mug still in hand. It won't be long now before one of his other sons decides to surface and join him on the sofa, for a night of crap TV- for some reason, it always goes down like that.  Tonight proves itself to definitely be no exception to any other similar night, as only two minutes after Phil manages to get comfortable again does Tommy emerge, saying nothing as he occupies the spot right next to Phil. They sit in silence, Saturday night telly playing at a quiet volume comparable to vocal dulcet tones, before Phil breaks it.

"Anything on your mind?" he asks, almost out of habit at this point, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. He knows Tommy prefers it like that, when he's given an opportunity to haphazardly shove things through the cracks without Phil's seemingly scrutinizing gaze. A beat passes, before he feels Tommy shrug, only pressing himself further into Phil's shoulder, and another passes before Tommy rests his head on said shoulder.

Goodness knows he loves nights like this, when none of his boys are struggling with some invisible enemy deep in their heads, or pre-occupied with the woes of teenage discourse, and he can just relax with at least one of them. And Phil himself knows that he'll regret this choice the second Tommy manages to hit REM cycle one, because he snores like a freight train and kicks in his sleep as if he's dreaming of becoming a professional boxer. 

Phil knows he'll definitely regret this choice when he somehow manages to fall asleep, his brain eventually deciding enough is enough, and classifying what could be compared to a 6'3 lawnmower right next to his ear as white noise, because when he wakes up his back will be protesting his choices. Painfully. That, and he'll have said lawnmower in his arms, generating enough heat to melt the tops off of the icecaps.

But it's always in the moments like this of brief calm and quiet, when there's some absolute tosspot on the telly, speaking non-stop and still managing to say fuck-all, and Phil's got an arm around Tommy's shoulders while the boy's eyes gently begin to droop shut, that he reckons he won't mind that much, in the long run. He must be misremembering how bad it is, after all, it's been a  _ while _ since-

Ah. There's that snoring. He definitely wasn't misremembering.


	2. tubbo

The next time someone shows up at the house, it's barely been three days. At midnight, as Phil's putting his cup in the sink, the ceramic exterior still warm to the touch, a pattern of knocks sound at the door. Once again, he finds himself shuffling to the source in a silly shirt, pajama pants, a dressing gown and slippers, and once again, he's not without an audience of wide eyes tracking his every move. 

Phil opens the door unsure of what to expect, but he can tell that neither he nor one of his boys in particular is expecting Tubbo to be stood there, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans and not at all like it's  _ actually _ midnight. Unlike Dream, he takes the oddness of the situation in stride, greeting Phil with a hushed yet enthusiastic, "Hi, Phil!"

"Hello, Tubbo," Phil responds with his best welcoming smile, pointedly ignoring the way that one of the stairs behind him creaks under somebody's weight. "You alright? It's a bit late."

Tubbo nods a bit too quickly, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. "Yep! Do you mind if I come in?" His smile doesn't match the way he practically trembles in front of Phil, like a terrified puppy staring up at its new owner, and it certainly doesn't reach his eyes. Phil is quick to usher him inside, out of the mid-December chill.

The door shuts firmly behind Phil as soon as Tubbo gets inside, followed by the sound of Tommy's socked feet quickly descending the rest of the staircase and the two boys hugging, while Techno and Wilbur linger towards the end of the stairs, too awkward to actually close the distance or say a word, but too protective to let such a strange event slide. Tubbo didn't show up unannounced often, not by a long shot, so Phil can only figure something serious must've happened.

He hovers for a moment, unsure of what to do and not wanting to break the moment between the two friends, before hesitantly asking, "Did you walk here?" Tubbo doesn't pull away from Tommy to answer him, and Phil fully doubts Tommy would've let him in the first place, but Tubbo does open his eyes to look at Phil as he answers. "Um, yeah. I'm fine though! Nothing bad happened."

Phil crosses his arms, unable to help the hint of anger that rises in his chest as he wonders what could've been so bad that Tubbo had  _ walked _ the thirty-minute distance between his house and theirs, during a cold spell like this with snow predicted for the next few weeks. He forces that irritation out of his mind, though, and instead opts to say, "Still a bit chilly out, though. Kettle's just boiled." It wasn't exactly a lie- he tended to drain his cups of tea fairly quickly, and if Phil had to guess, he'd say the slightly worn old thing had reached its ideal temperature only ten minutes or so ago.

Tubbo seems to perk up considerably at the mention of a hot drink, and nods as much as he physically can without actively jostling Tommy, who's still holding him in the same firm hug. Before Phil leaves for the kitchen to start making said hot drink, he shoots his two eldest boys a look that hopefully comes across as,  _ don't play too rough. _ He thanks the Gods it's an expression he's had to hone over the course of their collective childhoods, that rings out loud and clear as both Wilbur and Techno straighten up from where they stand, prepared to play the roles of good big brothers.

Making some kind of hot drink whenever one of his kids, or one of his students, was feeling down had become something of a skill of Phil's, to the point one could say he was dedicated to the craft. Set out the mugs, distribute the additives just the way they all liked it- black coffee for Techno, sugarless tea for Wilbur, some strongly-brewed abomination with about five sugars in it for Tommy, and plain old regular tea for Tubbo, one sugar and a reasonable amount of milk.

Pour the hot water, leave the bags to brew for as long as they took, remove said bags when all was said and done and set the cups out on the coffee table, in the living room adjoined to the kitchen. Phil calls out into the hallway once he's got everything on a coaster, and as his boys seat themselves on the old, yet still oddly comfy sofa, he finds himself bustling about the room despite the fact it's gone past twelve at night.

It tends to put their minds more at ease, anyway, when he's not visibly listening in or constantly present and paying attention. Phil hears nothing but mumbled words and quiet hubbub as he busies himself absently, sweeping stray crumbs off of the windowsill and briefly wondering whether or not those are moth bites on the curtains.

"Dad, just sit down already," comes Techno's monotone voice, cutting sharply through Phil's surprisingly crowded train of thought. "You're tirin'  _ me _ out."

"Right." Phil hums, smiling to himself as he takes the only unoccupied space on the sofa, in between Wilbur and Techno. In their own corner, Tubbo and Tommy playfully squabble over what channel they're watching, mindful to keep their voices hushed. They seem quite content to be left to themselves, and Phil finds himself happy with the situation he's in, too- with Techno practically draping himself across Phil's lap, and Wilbur's long, gangly limbs finding their way into the most oddly comfortable positions.

What brought Tubbo to the house tonight wasn't necessary information. They'd watch whatever was put on for a good half-hour, collectively call it a night, and Tommy and Tubbo would leave for school in the morning together as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Phil knew better than to try and pry himself into problems that weren't easily fixed, especially when they didn't somehow directly involve one of his kids. If Tubbo decided he wanted to talk about what had happened at some point, over breakfast the next morning or a full week and a half from now, that was his choice to make, not Phil's to push him toward.

Surprisingly enough, though, tonight, both Tommy and Tubbo are already asleep before the ten minute mark's even been hit. Techno spares them a humored glance from his position, sprawled out over Phil as if the man were some kind of expensive chaise lounge, and Wilbur gives a fond, low chuckle, attached to Phil like a koala to a eucalyptus tree. For a minute, Phil's entirely happy to fall asleep, there, too, until it starts up.

Techno groans. "Can't we have  _ one night?" _ he mumbles, careful to keep his voice low, at the cost of barely being audible over Tommy's snoring. Wilbur, too, seems to shift from fawning to irritated, as he huffs. "Like trying to sleep next to a fucking ship engine," the tall boy whispers, earning a barely quieted in time laugh from Phil.  They spend a moment there, once again content with the situation, until Phil remembers exactly why they were so annoyed in the first place. "Right, up you two," he begins, though he has no plans to move his sons against their own will. "So I can go put the fuckin'-  _ jet engine _ back in the hangar."


End file.
